


Practice And Procedure

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Asking Permission, Blow Jobs, Coping, Daddy Kink, Desperation, Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Non con dom, Oral Sex, Orders, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Slow Burn, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink meme prompt: Reid was taken as a teenager and now lives as a sex slave. His mistress is a player in an organization the BAU is investigating and while undercover, Hotch is forced to accept sexual favours from Reid in order to maintain his cover.</p><p>Unfortunately, this got away from me a little. So after the porn comes plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The organization is located in an apartment building owned by their UNSUB: a white man in his thirties or forties, with a need to be seen as a higher figure – more than a boss, it needed to be more than that. He needed to be seen as a father, or something similar.

The kidnappings had been noticed only over time, once every year or so. Young men who then seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth, but Hotch is certain they can find them, draw them back out safely. As safely as is possible, that is: this has been going on for too long now. Some of them will not be the same.

“Are you sure about this, Hotch?” Morgan asks, and without thinking about it he reaches out and adjusts the older man's collar. It's a nervous action – he thinks Hotch is going to die today. Perhaps he's correct.

“I'm positive.” Hotch says. He will play the new friend – trusted enough to be brought in for a drink. He doesn't need evidence from this; that's not the function of the mission. No, it's in order to coax out the _slightest_ bit of trust.

Once he's captured with no way to signal home (and there must be twenty women in that apartment building, twenty women with their own children that leave for school every morning and other, kidnapped boys that never get to leave), the building can be infiltrated by a larger group.

Hotch goes to dinner with the UNSUB: no longer unknown. Jeremy Kytes, who is a model landlord. Hotch plays a local banker – they got to chatting when Kytes came into the bank to complete some paperwork.

Hotch plays into his misogynistic jokes, joins in: he makes the same sexualized, all-patronizing comments about a young man that sits at the bar in the restaurant. He squirms for that, flushing red and turning away, curling his body in on himself.

Hotch feels bad, for that. But it's a necessary discomfort.

“Oh, uh, Chris, I got a place just 'round the corner. You wanna come in for a night cap?”

“Well, don't mind if I _do_ , Jeremy.” Hotch says, and he winks; Jeremy _grins._ It is not a good sight. His teeth are white, well-taken care of, but all the same his smile is offsetting. Hotch isn't sure if he would feel that way usually or if it's simply because he already knows this man is a serial kidnapper.

They hope. The profile, he thinks, is correct, but they never know for certain. Jeremy Kytes might have killed every single boy, all eleven of them, but Hotch cannot focus on that now. He has to focus, instead, on the idea that they are alive. That they need to be made safe and well again, drawn away from their captors.

The youngest might yet function in later life. The eldest? He would be twenty four now: Spencer Reid. Schizophrenic mother, now institutionalized. He'd been about to go to university, at thirteen years old. Now? They'll see.

Hotch walks beside Jeremy Kytes, takes on the slight  _swagger_ the other man adopts: they enter the apartment building. It's clean and well-kept, and they step into the elevator, rising to the third floor. As if he couldn't slip into any room he liked, act as if he owned the place.

“Jeremy!” She says delightedly: Marilyn Trent. She's a blonde with green eyes, wearing a red dress in a 50s style. She lives comfortably. 

“Marilyn.” Kytes purrs, and he leans, puts a hand on her hip and pulls her close. His kiss is possessive: he controls it. By extension, he controls her. “This is my friend, Chris Ward – nice banker from down in town. Mind if we come in for a night cap?”

She adores him. She is scared of him.

“Oh, that's fine, fine! Come in, come in!” She says brightly, and they do. Her furniture is as perfectly organized and laid out as her dress and her jewellery. It's not particularly expensive, but it is neat and pretty. Both of them settle in armchairs and she disappears to get scotch. She's eager to wait on him.

“Marilyn, honey,” She was the first. Definitely the first woman he seduced and brought in, obviously enough. “Where's the boy?” Her eyes go wide, and she looks from Jeremy to Hotch: her red-painted lips form an “o” reminiscent of the old films. Marilyn Trent could be Marilyn Monroe. Hotch wishes he didn't know her name had been Kathy before Jeremy Kytes had drawn her in. “It's okay, sweetie: my friend just wants to meet him. Where _is_ he?”

She flushes, sets the tray down, and then she moves into the other room, her hips swinging. 

Spencer Reid follows her out. His head is bowed neatly, his hands are clasped loosely behind his back, and his posture is perfectly submissive. He's shirtless, clad in pyjama pants that have been bought two sizes two small in order to make them tight, and he is barefoot. Hotch recognizes him from the photos, even though he's so much taller, and his face has filled out.

He's grown to be an attractive young man, and from the way he holds himself Hotch feels like he will never be able to function in normal society. Not like that.

“Hey there, Spence. This is Chris.” Spencer gives a polite nod, and his eyes flit up. He looks at Hotch for less than a second, but already irritation is obvious in Kytes' form. His lip twitches, his jaw _clicks._ Reid should pay attention to him only, unless told otherwise. _Even_ when told otherwise. Hotch takes the tumbler the other man nudges into his hand, taking a sip. It's good scotch. “Say hello.”

“Hello, Chris.” He enunciates the small words, and his voice is sweet. He's carefully cultivated that voice, attempting to be non-threatening. Reid looks to Kytes, and the expression is soft. It's _devoted_ , but- No. Faux devotion. He can't have been here eleven years and feel nothing real toward Kytes, can't have acted for so long.

Ah. When he looks to Marilyn Trent, his devotion is honest. His expression softens further, his lips part. He loves her completely, religiously, even. She is his world. Hotch absently plays over his left hand, over the space on his ring finger where his wedding ring was just a little while ago. Where it should still be, but isn't.

“Now, _Spence._ Say hello properly.” Kytes' tone is coaxing, but there's an edge of disapproval, so Reid moves quickly. He drops to his knees in front of Hotch's armchair. 

_Shit._

“Well, aren't you pretty?” Hotch says, because he's not Aaron Hotchner: he's Chris Ward. He puts out his hand, cups the other's face, slides his thumb over Reid's cheek. The touch is gentle, and Reid lets out a soft noise, closing his eyes and pressing into the other man's hand. Reid inhales deeply, and then his lips part as if he's ready to say something.

He closes his mouth, and he looks away from Hotch's face and at Hotch's tie instead.

Reid doesn't answer the question: he's too well-trained for that. He is breathing faster now, and when Hotch presses two fingers to the base of the other man's jaw he feels his pulse begin to speed. He's panicking. Hotch doesn't want to see this kid get slapped, doesn't want to see him beaten.

“Spence.” Hotch says softly, and Reid freezes, looks up at him with his scared, wide eyes and his parted lips. 

“You want to sample him, Chris?” The correct answer is yes. This is a test: a test to see if he's the real deal. Hotch tuts, patting Reid's cheek. 

“I'm not into kids, Jerry.”

“He's not a _kid_.” Kytes purrs, and he reaches over, puts his hand in Reid's hair. Reid barely suppresses a flinch. Hotch wishes he had Garcia or Morgan or Gideon or _someone_ in his ear to distract him, but he's doing this solo. _Undercover._ He feels inward revulsion. 

“How old are you, pretty?” Hotch asks softly, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the other's cheek. Reid lets out a soft sigh, and he relaxes somewhat. His eyes close and he leans into the touch. 

“Twenty four.” Reid says softly. “I'm not a kid. Even when I was a kid, technically one would expect-”

“Spence.” Marilyn says from the kitchen, her tone a warning. 

“Sorry!” The word comes out desperately, with a violent flinch. He closes his eyes as tightly as they can go, expecting a blow. Expecting _something_. So he's not to talk – they think he talks too much. His slim fingers have paper cuts but his hands are muscled. There's a piano to the side of the room, and a guitar too: he is probably expected to play both as entertainment. 

He reads a lot. Extensively. He was the first: Marilyn was the first to be given one of the boys. She has no children, no job: she only has Reid. 

“No, go on.” Hotch says, tone coaxing. He feigns curiosity. “Technically one would expect...?” Reid is shaking. He thinks this is a trick. He doesn't know what to do – he looks to Kytes for permission. Politeness is expected, even among the cruellest of men.

“Go on.” Kytes says in a low voice. 

“Technically one would expect a kid to be relatively uneducated, and childish. When I was thirteen I was about to go to college. Even as a kid, I was not a child as most would define the word.” 

“Oh, is that so?” Hotch says in Chris' voice, teasing, patronizing. It's the same voice he'd used with the lad at the bar, but Reid reacts differently. He is _shy_ , but he nods slowly, offering a small smile. He's proud of his intelligence – with Marilyn, he demonstrates it. Kytes doesn't care so much.

Reid turns his head into Hotch's hand, and he drags his lips over Hotch's fingers: it feels good. His lips are warm. Hotch's stomach turns, twists. He wants to vomit.

Reid inhales again. “You smell good.” Kytes doesn't like that. 

“Get up, Spence.” Reid stiffens again, but he stands, swallows: his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. He shivers. “Turn around.” He does, and there are scars on his back, scratches at his shoulders, but beneath are old marks from a belt used too hard. Kytes reaches out, putting his finger in the band of those blue pyjama pants that are worn too tight, and then pulling down.

More scars. His ass isn't so terrible as his back, but the scars are present. Hotch doesn't comment on this: instead he raises his eyebrow, looking at the curve of the smaller man's buttocks appraisingly. Reid is shivering, and Hotch can tell by the expression on Marilyn's face that he's making eye contact with her. He's looking at her for help. 

“Isn't this a nice sight?” Kytes asks, and Hotch inclines his head.

“Oh, yes.” Kytes reaches out, spreads Reid's buttocks. His entrance is pink and just a little open, and Kytes presses his thumbs forwards, spreads it further apart. He presses one thumb _in_ , and Reid lets out a whimper until it is cut short: he's biting his lip. “He loves this. Pretty little slut, aren't you, Spence?”

“Yes, sir. _Please._ ” Reid whimpers, and Kytes catches his hips, pulling him into his lap. Reid falls back against him, and he looks so _small_ against the other man – he's not underfed, certainly, but it's obvious he's naturally thin. 

“Well, if you give Chris here a nice wet _blowy_ , then I'll fuck you. Make you all nice and full.” Reid _wriggles_ in his lap, swallowing again.

“Please.” Reid whispers, and he's nodding. “ _Daddy_ , please-” Kytes cups him through the pyjama pants, and the boy bucks into it, letting out a quiet wail. Hotch is going to have to accept the favour. Reid is pretty, the sort of man Hotch likes, though he hasn't dated anyone since before marrying Hayley. Even though she'd left a few months ago now, taking Jack with her, he hadn't yet gone out with anyone else.

Reid is pretty, yes. The sort of man Hotch likes, yes. But he can't consent, not like this: consent in this situation isn't  _possible._

“Go on then, Spence. Make Daddy happy.” Reid slides from Kytes' lap, and his hands are quick on Hotch's slacks, quick about undoing his belt, unzipping him. His cock is visibly hard under the blue fabric, but Reid pays no attention to himself, instead dipping forwards and putting his mouth to Hotch instead.

Hotch lets out a quiet groan, his eyes closing: Reid's mouth is wet and hot and skilful, and he works quickly, bobbing his head, playing over Hotch with his tongue. He hollows his cheeks, and God,  _God_ , he's good at this. Hotch is soon hard, and this won't take him long.

He grabs Reid by the hair, playing his part, pushes him down onto his cock, and Reid  _moans_ around him. God, it's easy to pretend he enjoys this. He doesn't, Hotch knows full well that he doesn't, but Reid's a good actor. 

Reid swallows Hotch's orgasm down with eagerness, and when he settles back on his heels, he looks to Kytes immediately. 

“Daddy-”

“Oh, I know, pretty boy, I know. Go get your oil.” Reid runs out of the room, all posture gone: eager. 

“He really likes getting fucked, huh?”

“He ain't allowed to touch himself.” Kytes says, sounding distinctly proud of himself. Smug, even. “And Marilyn doesn't let him come either – he only gets to when I come around.” That would explain the eagerness, Hotch supposes.

His phone rings, and Hotch answers it.

“Hey, Christopher! How's it hangin'?” 

“John, hi.” Hotch says to Morgan on the other end of the phone. “You need something? I'm busy.” He looks at Kytes and rolls his eyes demonstratively, and Jeremy _snorts._

“I actually really need you to come in, man. We got something weird on the security tapes, and the big man ain't answering the phone.” Hotch sighs, feigning a little irritation, letting out a huff of sound. 

“Fine.” He says, biting out the word, and he hangs up. “Sorry to love you and leave you, Jerry – why don't you come meet me for drinks tomorrow night? At the Clamshake, on the corner?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Kytes says, and he looks to Reid, who is hovering uncertainly in the doorway, his bottle of scented oil clasped in his hand.

“See you, pretty boy. Lovely lady.” Hotch nods at Reid and Marilyn in turn, receiving the polite nods. Marilyn looks a mixture of glad and upset to see the new man leave, but of course she says nothing. Hotch zips himself up, leaning the apartment, leaving the building. 

He is glad to get out. He thinks about Reid, thinks about how eager he'd been, how scared of Kytes he was and yet  _eager._

\---

He watches them all move through the sheriff's office, after Kytes has been captured. All the kidnappings he'd performed, some murders of his “wives”. Too many people. Too many lives upset, destroyed, even. Some of the women, acting accomplices, will receive short prison sentences. Others, he suspects, will be given minor punishments.

Hotch is not watching them. 

Reid speaks quietly with his psychologist. He is polite and well-rounded, so Hotch is told. They can scarcely believe he was one of the boys taken.

A good actor.

“I want to speak to the agent who infiltrated the apartment building, please.” Reid speaks politely even then. “He made use of a pseudonym: Chris Warden.”

“I don't think that's a good ide-”

“With all respect, I am a victim. I was kidnapped. I did _nothing_ illegal during my incarceration. You lack the authority to keep me here if I am not under arrest and if I am no psychological risk to myself or other people. I will _continue_ speaking with you, answering your questions, so long as you allow me to speak to that agent.” Hotch raises an eyebrow, watching the kid through the interrogation room's glass. He speaks _firmly_ , and it upsets him to do so – Hotch can tell from the shake to his lips.

“Alright.” Doctor Simmons says, and she steps up, pushing the door open. “Oh, sir, you're here. Would you-”

“Yes.” Hotch moves into the room, and he sits in her chair. He looks at Reid: Reid's posture loosens. He looks more comfortable, and his lips part. They've wrapped a coat around his shoulders – Hotch recognizes it as one of Morgan's. He's not surprised. Morgan is a protective man: so is Hotch. “My name is Agent Aaron Hotchner. I'm a profiler with the BAU. You have my _sincere_ apologies for the way I treated you: I was undercover. I had no idea you would be present.” Hotch speaks professionally, because he can't be otherwise. 

“It's alright.” Reid says, and the soft voice returns – the soft voice he used in front of Jeremy Kytes. “Thank you, for having the courage to, um, to do that. I actually- I had ambitions, to join the BAU. Before.” He swallows, and he looks to the side: Hotch watches him for a few moments. “But yeah, thanks.”

“Did you want to say something else?” Hotch asks after an uncertain pause.

“What do you think they'll try to do with me?” Reid asks. “And I ask your opinion as a man involved, not your professional opinion. I have every intention of seeing my mother, but I- I feel it would be too late to cont-continue-” He's breathing faster, and Hotch spreads out his hands.

“Calm down.” Reid does, slowly. “We will find you somewhere to stay. We will _help_ you.” 

“Can I stay with you?” Reid blurts out, and Hotch stares at him. 

“I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? You- you live alone, you're relatively introverted, I know, and your- your wife left you but you're nice, you're good, you're just work obsessed and you _get_ it, and I don't want to be put in with someone who doesn't _get_ it-”

“Spencer.” Reid closes his mouth. “Is that deduction or psychological profiling?” Reid swallows hard.

“A mixture of both.”

“That's impressive.” Hotch says quietly. “Cite your evidence.”

“Sir-”

“Hotch. I'm not sir.” He speaks patiently as he presses the correction, but with no edge of coaxing or condescension. Reid nods.

“Hotch.” He bites his lip, worries the flesh under his teeth. “There's still a tanned mark on your finger from where your ring was– I can tell you only took it off recently because you kept putting your fingers there, to touch it. One can surmise from your work, your ability to empathize, and, um, your willingness to go undercover like that, that you're work obsessed. You don't talk much. And you- I just know you get it.”

“Tell me how you know.” Hotch says steadily. 

“S- Hotch-”

“It's alright.” Hotch scans the other's face, sees him press his lips together, furrow his brow just _slightly._ Confusion. Uncertainty. He folds his hands over each other to keep from drumming his fingers on the table's surface, so it seems.

“Because you'e worked with people like me. Because you've seen first hand how he treated me.” He doesn't mention Marilyn. Why not? 

“And Marilyn?” Reid sighs, puts his head in his hands.

“She's a good woman. We were at home together _all_ day, and even though- even though she was my mistress, it wasn't-”

“She was as much a slave as you were.” Spencer Reid looks at him for a few moments, and then he gives a small nod. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. Hotch.”

Gideon watches him disapprovingly as he exits the room, and Hotch meets his eyes, waiting for the inevitable comment. The disapproval fades, and Gideon lets out a quiet sigh. “You're the best chance he has of re-assimilating.”

“I think so.” Hotch agrees. “It's not professional.”

“It's not common procedure.” Gideon says with a nod. “But... He's a nice kid. Wants to be an agent.”

“He wants to see his mother and continue his education.” Hotch corrects him, doing his best to counteract Gideon's tendency to _plan._ Gideon smiles at him. Hotch shakes his head as firmly as he can.

\---

Hotch is organizing the spare room. He bought six boxes of non-fiction books second hand, because he'd seen them cheap at a second-hand store. It's a simple gesture, but Reid won't have any books yet, and these will be something. He didn't risk getting something fictional, as he had no idea as to preferred genre.

He has no idea as to anything, really, but he supposes Reid doesn't either. He's to work at Virginia. Hotch thinks it's moving to fast, because it  _is_ , but he doesn't say so. Reid is confident. Reid wants to do this.

Reid is wearing a tight sweater over a checked shirt when he comes in, a cardigan thrown over that. 

“Do you get cold easily?” Hotch asks, and he takes the other's suitcase. Contained within are clothes and shoes only: new. Morgan had gone with him to do that, and Reid had liked Morgan, well enough.

“Yes.” Reid says, quietly. “This is how I always used to dress. But also it makes me feel safer, less, ah- naked. And it's like-” Reid trails off, losing the word.

“Normality?” Hotch offers. Reid nods. “I understand. I've bought you some books, uh, let me show you your room.” Three weeks. Three weeks between psychologists and police interviews. Spencer will be expected to give evidence in court, but that won't be for a while.

He flinches when noises are too loud, and when someone yelled in the police department he'd gone wide-eyed, non-verbal and had sat curled tightly in a chair until Morgan had moved to talk to him, draw him out a little. He still cuts himself off when he wants to talk about something. Occasionally he still has to stop himself from calling Hotch “sir” - he does the same with Gideon. But no honorifics with Derek, nor with Elle, nor with Penelope.

“You can do what you like with it.” Hotch says quietly, in a light, warm tone. “I honestly don't mind if you want to redecorate, put up posters, anything like that.” Reid gives a small nod, carrying his suitcase inside and putting it on his bed. 

“Thank you. You didn't have to do this.” Reid says softly.

“But I did.”

“But you did.” Reid agrees, and he gives a small nod, beginning to unpack his things. Each article is neatly folded, settled in a drawer or hung up in the wardrobe. Reid's hands are shaking. “I'm gonna be, uh, meeting a professor. Tomorrow. And if it goes okay, then I'll go there.”

“Alright.” Hotch nods, and he watches as Reid begins to look through the boxes, a small smile on his face. “What rate do you read at?”

“Twenty thousand words per minute.” Hotch doesn't comment, but Reid glances at him, looking momentarily uncertain. “I'm not lying. I have an IQ of 187-”

“I know.” Hotch says in a light, pleasant tone. “I trust you.” Reid raises his chin, and he regards Hotch with a slightly tilted head. 

“Why?” Hotch looks at him for a few moments, and then he shrugs, offering a small smile.

“You get it.” Reid's laugh tumbles from his mouth, and he looks shocked to be chuckling, but he laughs readily: when he draws off, he smiles. It's shy. He looks _pretty_ , and Hotch shouldn't think about that.

The man is at risk – Hotch is determined to keep him as safe as possible. He's hardly going to breach the other man's trust by trying to take advantage of him, by any means. 

“Are you sure about this, Reid? About school?” Reid gives a small nod. “And living here, even when I'm not around?”

“I can do it.” Reid insists. “I don't need to be parented, Hotch. I'm- I'm not a fish out of water, here. More like a bull shark having been pushed from upriver into open seawater. I can survive. It's just not what I'm used to.”

“Bull shark?” Hotch repeats.

“They can survive in both fresh and salt water. But they're aggressively territorial – perhaps not the best example.” Hotch laughs again, and Reid looks to his boxes of books. Hotch isn't _certain_ this is a good idea, but he is certain that he wants to help, that he can.

So he is.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is seven o'clock in the evening when Hotch returns home: the door is unlocked, and he moves inside.

“Spencer?” He calls, and it feels odd – for some reason, inexplicably, he and Reid had fallen into a last name basis of address, as he works with the BAU team. Why, he's uncertain. Something to do with the way the younger man speaks, he supposes. “Reid?”

No answer, even then. Hotch frowns, pushing the door behind him closed, and then he moves slowly into the house, his hand going to the gun at his hip. He pulls it from his holster, and he is cautious, slow, methodical. Nothing downstairs. No signs of forced entry or of any entry.

Hotch begins to make his way up the stairs, and he hears the shower running. He moves slowly and tries to ignore the mental images, the hypothetical spatters of blood sprayed on the walls and the floors, soaked into the bathmat or running down the drain.

He rounds the corner and looks in through the open door.

Reid doesn't even look at him, staring blankly into space, and Hotch lowers his gun. He straps it to his side again, and he moves forwards, turning off the shower.

Reid is soaked through, sat in the bath under the shower's spray, still fully dressed except for his shoes. The water had been cold, and Hotch isn't certain whether Reid is shivering for the cold or for shock.

“Reid.” Hotch says quietly, and Reid looks up at him, and then he glances around the room as if coming to his senses.

“Sorry.” Reid whispers quietly, and Hotch holds out his hand to help the other man out of the bath. He wraps Reid in a towel immediately, and he leads the other upstairs because both of Reid's hands are holding Hotch's own. He can't leave the other man just now, not even to get him some other clothes.

“It's alright.” Hotch murmurs, and he pushes Reid to settle on one of the chairs in the kitchen, setting about making coffee with too much sugar for him. “What happened?” He asks, and then he sets the coffee down next to the younger man, sitting in front of him. Reid hesitates, staring at Hotch's hand, and his breathing speeds until Hotch holds it out.

Reid grasps it tightly in his own, slimmer one, and he relaxes just slightly. The contact helps, Hotch thinks, offering a grounding force.

He's letting Reid work this out on his own: it's hardly his place to intrude, and though he'll offer therapy, a psychologist, he won't force it. He is relatively certain Reid will agree to go, though. He's a subscriber to logic as much as he can, as Hotch as seen.

“I- I had my interview with, uh, um, Professor Sinclair, but I- on the way back, a f- a man, um, a student, I'm guessing-” Reid's breathing becomes laboured, but it is slow: every breath is conscious. Hotch can see his index finger tapping out the seconds as he breathes in, two, three, out, two, three. He cannot hear the inward, “Don't panic, safe, I am safe”, but he's reasonably certain that is Reid's current internal monologue. “And he- he- my, uh, my- they called it, um, pantsing? Uh-”

“He pulled your jeans down while his friends recorded it on their cellphones.” Hotch says, because Reid is struggling to speak, and Reid starts nodding. He begins to shake, and then he leans forward, and he releases Hotch's hand only to hold his own out.

“Can I- I'm sorry, can I-” Hotch is proud he managed to ask this time. Little leaps, large bounds.

“You want a hug?” Hotch asks, just to ensure that that _is_ what Reid wants, and he nods, he nods desperately, and Hotch leans forwards and holds his arms out slightly. Reid _throws_ himself forward and clings to him, and then he starts crying.

Hotch has never felt someone sob like this, because the younger man's body is  _racked_ with it, and Hotch holds him as tightly as he dares. He's soaked through even still after lying in the shower for however long, but Hotch doesn't comment on it. It's not his place.

“And I- I- and it's a programmed response, it was automatic, I couldn't- I couldn't _not_ and I dropped to my knees and bowed my head and put my hands _behind my back_ and he was staring at me and I couldn't get up because I wasn't allowed and I had to be _told_ I could get up and I knew that it wasn't logical or correct and I know that this isn't _atypical_ of a response to long-term trauma.” Reid gasps for breath, and he keeps his face pressed firmly against Hotch's shoulder, continuing to shake.

“Did Professor Sinclair help you up?” Hotch asks. Reid nods. “Did he tell the boys to delete the videos on their phones?”

“Yes, Hotch.” Reid whispers, and he keeps holding onto Hotch. “I can't- I know I said that I could, um, handle it, but I really don't think that I- when I was younger, before he took me, I- some other kids, they took me and stripped me naked and they tied me to the goalposts outside. And- and- I struggled, and this time I didn't struggle, I _didn't_ , which isn't- I should have, I shouldn't have just-”

Hotch very slowly strokes over his back, a gentle, smooth, calming motion. 

“What you did is nothing to be ashamed of. You were there for over ten years, Reid. You can't just expect to jump into things as if that decade didn't happen.” Hotch says, and Reid tightens his hands in the back of the other's suit jacket. “I'm going to organize, for you, two hours a week with a psychologist. To talk.” Hotch murmurs against Reid's temple, quietly. “I won't speak with them. I won't invade your privacy. You can tell me what you wish, but things you don't want to tell me, you can tell them.”

There is a drawn-out pause. “I won't force you.” He repeats quietly. “But I think-”

“I'll go.” Reid says. “That- that would- that's the logical decision. I know I can't bottle it up.”

“Good.” Hotch murmurs quietly, and Reid slowly moves to extricate himself.

“I- I should- put on some clothes, or, uh, pyjamas, what time...?”

“It's a little past half seven.” Reid nods, and he moves upstairs. The coffee sits on the side, untouched and going cold, and Hotch pours it down the drain. He's wary of being too firm with suggestions – he doesn't want to put Reid in the position where he's effectively come to a new master from an old one.

When Reid comes down it's in a set of black, silken pyjamas. No pattern: plain. His hair is half dry, and he hovers in the kitchen, as if uncertain of what he's doing.

“You can stay in the BAU's offices tomorrow.” Hotch says quietly. “You can study in Gideon's office, if you don't want to stay here. Or, study from home. You can just as easily do your degree via correspondence, without lectures.” Hotch points out, removing ingredients; mushrooms, some chicken breast, red peppers, a lemon, some tomato purée. 

“I think I will. I- I do want to come. To the BAU office. Thank you.” Reid says quietly, raising his shaking hand to his head and stroking through his hair. He hovers for a few moments more, and Hotch speaks more to distract him as well as to alleviate the silence. 

“Do you want to help?” He doesn't tell Reid what to do. Reid looks at him, at the ingredients laid out, and Hotch is reasonably certain he understands Hotch's hesitation.

Thinking of Reid as he was, under Jeremy Kytes, made Hotch feel sick, but seeing him like this affects him with a sort of discomfiting nausea. 

“I'll chop the mushrooms and the red peppers.” Reid says, as firmly as he can manage. It's not completely solid, and there's a plain quaver in his tone, but that's alright. Hotch smiles at him, and the smile Reid gives him in return is weak, but present. 

Yeah. Little leaps. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner together, settled in the kitchen, Hotch moves into the living room, quietly beginning to work. Reid moves about the kitchen for a little while (Hotch cannot hear his bare feet padding on the tile, but he can hear the cupboards open only to be closed again with no plates, no food, coming out of them) before hovering in the doorway.

Hotch glances to him, thoughtful, and examines his face. Reid is silent, and he looks as if he is thinking carefully as he glances rapidly around the room. No, not just thinking.

Reid looks as if he's evaluating risk.

“You can sit wherever you like, and the television remote is on the bookshelf if you want it.” Hotch says, and Reid nods: with that permission he moves into the room, carefully, and he reaches for the shelf. There's a coffee table in front of it, and to do so he has to lean forwards, standing on his toes.

The pyjama shirt rides up, revealing soft flesh. Hotch feels a sharp desire to reach out and touch, so he looks back to his work. He won't even entertain the idea of sex with Spencer Reid – as if the younger man hadn't been through enough. He hardly needed a man fifteen years his senior lusting after him, particularly after the circumstances he'd taken the boy from.

Reid deliberates for a few moments, and he looks at the spot beside Hotch on the sofa for a second or two before moving to settle in an armchair. Hotch will draw up some rules, he thinks – or at least, not-rules. A list of blanket permissions, so that Reid doesn't feel so unsafe in doing as he likes.

And of course, there's still the possibility for him that Hotch might beat him, spank him, be rough with him if he goes wrong.

Hotch will not, of course. It will take time for that to become clear in the other man's mind, he thinks.

He relaxes in the chair, and he puts on the TV. The only channels he flicks through channels, only looking properly at those broadcasting factual shows and soap operas. He ends up deciding on a documentary about capitalism, Michael Moore, and he settles in his place.

Hotch works in silence, losing himself in it. He doesn't mind the documentary in the background, and he only pulls his head from his paperwork when gets a text: _Spencer Reid's first appointment will be at 4:15 on Tuesday._

“Re-” Hotch begins to speak, but then he cuts himself short, looking at the other man for a few moments with a softened expression. Reid's head has fallen against the arm of the chair, and his eyes are closed, his lips parted in his sleep. In his slim, clever fingers, the TV remote is loosely clasped.

He moves forwards, very gently removing it and setting it aside, and then he carefully slots his arms under Reid's knees and his upper back, lifting him with care. He cannot leave Reid to sleep alone downstairs – for one, Hotch prefers he is upstairs and further away from the front door, but for the most part, he worries for the other man hurting the muscle in his neck for the odd position, or hurting his back.

Reid's eyes open slowly, and he looks at Hotch blearily before he wraps his arms tightly around the other man's neck, pressing his face there. “ _Daddy_ -” The whisper is slow, and after speaking Reid leans forwards, one of his hands playing over Hotch's chest.

“ _Reid._ ” Hotch says sharply, and he recoils slightly,his eyes widening as he wakes up a little. Hotch settles him down on the bed, and Reid flushes a deep red, pressing his legs together and covering half of his face with his hand.

“I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry-” Reid begins to apologize, but Hotch drops into a crouch and spreads his hands. Reid blinks at him, shocked into silence.

“That was my fault. I tried to move you without waking you up – you were half-asleep. You did as you have done for a long time.” Hotch murmurs, and Reid stares at him, shaking a little in his place. “It's not your fault – that was _my_ fault.” He speaks firmly, resolutely. “Your first therapy appointment is quarter past four on Tuesday, alright?” Reid nods, biting his lip.

“But I- I called you- I didn't mean to-”

“I know you didn't. Tomorrow morning, before heading to the BAU, I think we'll discuss some house rules.” Reid's eyes widen. “By which I mean confirmation of boundaries for each of us, and set in stone what you can do. Which is, effectively, anything you like.” Reid laughs a little at Hotch's wry tone, and he offers a small smile.

“Alright.” Reid murmurs. “Um- I know- I know this is, uh, strange to ask, I know, I know, but I need to- am I allowed to-” For once, Hotch has no idea what Reid wants to ask for. He's adjusting his hands continually, and Hotch cannot deduce what it is he wishes to request. “I-” Reid closes his eyes tightly. “ _ **AmIallowedtomasturbate.**_ ” It comes out a blur that ends up a sentence more than a question; immediately after he flinches out of instinct and raises his hands, as if he thinks Hotch might hit him.

He must have thought about this since coming here. Hotch thinks of Reid's desperation as he'd slid into Kytes' lap, and he feels a mix of nausea and something less explicable – interest. Not in Reid's desperation, but in Reid  _masturbating._ Hotch feels guilty: he ought have given permission from the very beginning. 

_Idiot,_ Hotchner. 

“Yes.” Hotch says firmly. “And-” He shouldn't think about Reid masturbating, but he needs to be able to talk about this _frankly_ , much as it's distinctly uncomfortable. “I will never go through your mail. If you choose to order _anything_ online, I'll stack it up ready for you. I won't invade your privacy. If you wish to ask me anything, anything at all, you can.” He speaks vehemently, and hopes Reid gets his meaning.

He's hardly going so far as to offer to pick up bottles of lubricant with the weakly groceries, but he needs to make that “permission” clear.

Reid's hands slowly lower again, and he looks ashamed of himself. “It's okay, Reid.” Hotch says softly, and there's a slow nod. He stands and makes his way downstairs, packing up his work, and then he retreats into his own bedroom, undressing and pulling on some pyjamas before dropping into bed himself.

He lies on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, and thinks in a concentrated fashion about breakfast tomorrow in order to not think about the other man potentially touching himself in the next room. What is  _wrong_ with him?

Hotch rubs over his own eyes, tiredly.

At least work tomorrow will be a ready distraction.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Hotch cooks breakfast for himself – he has an omelette, but Reid just takes several slices of fruit. Breakfasts, for him, have always been light, it seems. He looks half-asleep as he picks up his books and his MP3 player and settles in the passenger seat.

The MP3 player had been his only possession: even the books he'd had were either Marilyn's or from the library. He was allowed to keep it, at least – his clothes, if they could be called that, were taken for evidence, but then, it was best he didn't keep those.

“So, um, Tuesday.” Reid says, and he stares out of the window instead of meeting Hotch's eyes, uncomfortable with the conversation despite being the one to bring it up. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Hotch confirms, and he clips his seatbelt into place, pulling out of the driveway. He keeps his eyes on the road, and doesn't risk glancing over at Reid for now. Just in case: caution can be good. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Reid says softly. “I just- it's a source of some anxiety. I guess.” Hotch stops at a traffic light, and he looks over, watching Reid rub tiredly at his eyes and then yawn, stifling it against his left hand.

“How many hours did you sleep, Reid?”

“Four, maybe.” He says softly, and Hotch frowns slightly. “Tossed and turned a little.” He leans to the side, letting his temple press against the glass of the car window. He doesn't look well, in truth, and Hotch is glad to be able to look away and start driving again.

“Are you certain you're okay sleeping on your own?” Hotch asks quietly, and he lets out a non-committal noise.

“I- I didn't-” Reid trails off, and Hotch doesn't press, allowing him a few moments' pause. It takes him a little while, but then Reid says, “I haven't slept alone since I was thirteen.” He admits. “I slept at the bottom of Marilyn's bed. On the nights Da- _Jeremy_ was there, I'd sleep on the floor. It's weird, being all alone, in the room. I don't- I can't hear anyone breathing, can't hear-” Reid's voice breaks in the middle.

“I don't think it would be a good idea for us to sleep in the same room.” Hotch murmurs. The disappointed crumple of Reid's body is uncomfortable to witness even in his peripheral vision, but he has one potential solution. “I think that would be a stopgap. Once you get a laptop, though, you could borrow some audiobooks from the library, or buy one or two online. I'm sure Penelope would help you select one or two.”

Reid looks up and at Hotch, and a slight twinge of hope comes to his face. “A- an audiobook?”

“Yes. Or a radio show, a drama – something with more than just music.” Hotch continues, and Reid nods; a tentative smile appears on his face, and he nods a little more.

“Yeah- yeah, that's- it wouldn't keep you up?” Reid asks, and Hotch shakes his head.

“No, I'll be alright.” He says firmly, and Reid still looks as exhausted, as _haggard_ , but he smiles all the same. It's strange, Hotch thinks, that he'd been sleeping just fine until they'd taken him away from that place. There's something obscene about that, he supposes.

Reid settles in Gideon's office once they're inside – they're working all day on individual profiles, mostly paperwork or consultations over video chat, so no flying today. Reid moves into Gideon's office at Gideon's invitation, with a nervous smile aimed at Hotch, and he stays in there for much of the day.

When Hotch comes in to let Gideon and Reid know he's going out for a few moments, and he stops short. Reid is asleep with a blanket thrown over him on Gideon's couch, and Gideon is working through paper after paper. He looks up at Hotch, glances to Reid, and then back.

“We played chess, he read a little. Ate lunch. We were talking, and he just fell asleep mid-conversation.” Gideon says. “I like this kid, Aaron. He's a real good boy – is he gonna be here every day now?” Hotch presses his lips together.

“He doesn't- on the days we're not going anywhere.” Hotch says. “When we are, he's studying from home.” Gideon frowns.

“I thought they were gonna let him come to the university here?” Gideon's brow is furrowed – Hotch can already see him making silent plans to make calls, but Hotch shakes his head.

“I don't think that's right for him, at the moment.” Hotch murmurs. “Too much.” Gideon makes a quiet noise of understanding, and he adjusts his glasses, looking to the younger man, his peaceful expression, the way his hair is mussed.

Hotch doesn't think Gideon has ever taken to someone so swiftly before – Gideon is not, as a rule, an especially friendly man. Easily distracted. Forgetful. Affectionate, but not usually so soon. Reid looks up to him though, and that's good – in fact, Reid has slipped seamlessly in amongst the team.

It's as if he was meant to be there.

When Hotch returns after an hour or so, errands completed, Reid is sat in Garcia's office, and they're sharing a plate of sushi that she eats with confidence and he picks at with complete uncertainty.

“You've never had sushi before?” Hotch asks, and Reid looks up, laughing a little and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Uh, no, never. It's good, but, um, isn't some of it spicy?” Reid looks from Hotch to Garcia, addressing the question to her, and she snorts.

“Nothing you have in front of you is spicy.” Garcia says, and she pats Reid's knee fondly; Reid stiffens for just a second, and then relaxes further than he had a second before. “Except me, of course.” Reid laughs brightly, and Hotch cannot help but smile for that.

He moves back to Gideon, now that Reid is no longer asleep in the office, and he carefully closes the door behind him.

“Something bad happen to him on campus?” Gideon asks, and immediately the papers are set aside – yes, Gideon really _does_ like Reid.

“He got “pantsed” by some male students. His conditioned reaction-” Hotch doesn't finish the sentence, and he waves his hand, pursing his lips together. Gideon nods. “He's going to be seeing a therapist, and he'll complete his work from home. Coming here is social, it's just- more easily controlled.” Gideon nods his agreement.

“Better to start with the public pool than throwing him off a boat when he's only paddled all his life.” Hotch holds no particular love for the swimming metaphor, but it holds the purpose well enough. “Well, it's all fine by me. He says he's glad he got you.”

Hotch frowns, tilting his head just slightly to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, something about how of all the agents around, he got the lucky draw?” Hotch thinks of Reid masturbating, and is distinctly uncomfortable. It must show on his face, because Gideon smiles at him. “It's perfectly normal. You're an attractive man, he's young and just out of-”

“Stop.” Gideon does. “He'll accustom.” The older man gives a nod, spreading his hands out in a gesture intended to calm the other down. Hotch does not _need_ calming: he is calm.

And thinking inappropriate thoughts.

“I'm heading home.” Hotch says, and Gideon nods.

“See you tomorrow.”


	5. Chapter 5

It's the middle of the night when Reid's hands touch upon his shoulder, and Hotch lets out a quiet grunt, tiredly opening his eyes and looking at the other man in the dark. Reid is shaking, soaked with sweat, his hair pressed all around his head.

“Reid?” Hotch asks quietly, and the other man lets out a sharp sob. “Reid, sit down, sit down on the edge of the bed.” Hotch says quickly, and he stands, moving around to the other side of the bed and sitting beside him as he does so. Reid lets out soft, short little noises.

“Breathe in, Reid, one, two, three, hold.” Hotch speaks calmly, quietly but with a firm tone to his voice, and Reid does so. “Out, one, two, three, hold.” It takes a little while, repetition after repetition, and Reid stops trembling, his hands going still on his knees as he remains in place. “Better?”

Reid gives a slow nod, careful, looking into the darkness of the room. In the half-light Hotch can see the dried tears on his face, see the sweat shine all over his shoulders.

“Nightmare?” Hotch asks, because he knows the signs. Reid nods.

“I- I-” Reid speaks, and then stops short, uncertain.

“Do you want to discuss it?” Hotch offers the question gently. “Because if you don't-”

“I do.” Reid says. He seems to remember himself, flushing red for having interrupted the older man, but he doesn't flinch away expecting a blow. That's progress. “I- I was- I was in a room, dark room, wet room, a- a basement-” Reid whispers. “Put me on- bent over a leather t-t-table, and then D- Kytes was there.” His voice shudders again, and then he whispers, “And he- I couldn't get away, I couldn't-”

Reid takes in a harsh breath, and then Hotch offers him one arm. Reid drops against Hotch's chest, and he hugs the other man tightly, but not for long - after a second he pulls away again.

“You're safe now.” Hotch murmurs quietly, and he rubs a slow circle on the other man's back. Reid closes his eyes for a second, and then he nods. “You're safe. He won't be able to reach you ever again, okay?”

Another nod, another nervous, still-slightly uncertain nod.

Reid hesitates, and he glances to Hotch's bed, his lips parting slightly – an expression of want Hotch _really_ cannot indulge. Reid might sleep better next to someone else, but he needs to accustom to sleeping alone, and for he and Hotch to sleep together would be far too intimate.

Hotch can't do that to him, can't destroy his progress like that.

Reid stands and moves away, and Hotch watches him. “Audiobooks tomorrow.” He promises, and Reid glances back, giving a polite nod. He bites his lip, looking as if he wants to say something else, but then he pulls away, rushing down the corridor to his own room. 

Hotch waits for a second, and then drops back on the bed, giving a quiet sigh and rubbing at his sleepy eyes. 

Little steps, he reminds himself, but it makes it no less painful. 

 


End file.
